My Misguided Tour

At 7:30 next morning there was no bus. At 7:40, still no bus. Frantically, I rummaged through my list of things to do and telephone numbers to remember. Where did that Commander live? And what good would it do to find him now, an hour before plane time? I had a vision of 35 frightened Americans, carrying 48 pieces of luggage and uncountable purses and flight bags, stranded on the strand of France. Then the bus came, big and blue and welcome. The driver fished out an instruction sheet that read 7:45 and not 7:30. Oh, that Commander! The bus started and the Doctor's daughter began to sing Margie and others joined her. I gave the driver a 5,000-franc note for no reason at all except that it was suddenly a very bright morning.

Rome was hot and sticky. The ladies were drinking prescription formula for swollen ankles and the men looked longingly at each birra (beer) sign. But no matter, this was the Olympic City and this was why we had come.

At our hotel, naturally, trouble was waiting. I was informed that 10 of the group must be housed at another hotel. Though we later discovered this extra hotel was a lovely old place with a huge courtyard, clean dormitory-style halls and complete plumbing in each room, it was far from the center of the city and those who lived there came to regard themselves as second-class citizens. It helped a bit when we identified them as the Country Club Set and applauded each time the bus picked them up on the way to the Olympics.

Meantime, back at the major hotel, next to Rome's railroad station, the "favored" group learned that most of them would not have plumbing and a few would be required to sleep three to a room. This time the manager himself spoke to me, and he was all apologies. "I have made a mistake," he said. "Another tour group came in two days ago and I gave them all the rooms promised to you. They all have bagni (baths). Now it is too late, I cannot remove them from their rooms." We argued and I lost, except for a vague promise that everything would be better in two or three days.

I tried to be casual with the group.

"Those of you who have been to Europe will understand," I said. "You see, over here the bath has always been a ritual. In a sense it is a symbol of luxury. You ring for the maid and she draws your water, hands you your towel and even scrubs your back. You luxuriate. Europeans believe the bath should not be part of the bedroom." I asked the Judge and Mr. Dignity if they would mind rooming together. "Anything you say," they answered. The heat had broken their spirit.

The room problem was finally solved, but there were other problems to take its place. I found an outlet for them, though. Nightly I talked them all over with other tour conductors who had been beguiled back home like me. We didn't exactly seek each other out, we just seemed to converge each evening on Doney's sidewalk tables on the Via Veneto.

One problem was the matter of tickets. I had been assured our season seats were right on the finish line, and, indeed, they were on the sunny side of the field. Sunny? It was broiling. I had my own accredited seat in the press area on the shady side.

"I saw you through my field glasses," said the Quiet Doctor. "My tongue was hanging out, it was so hot."

"That so?" I said. "My seat is down near the starting mark so I can't tell for sure who wins a race. Would you believe it, I thought Dave Sime caught and passed Hary in the 100 meters?"